I mentioned the ingenuity displayed in the Census—turn to the maps and diagrams. You will see a map of England and Wales, shaded so that the depth of colour shall denote the density of the population: there are figures also to tell the number of persons to a square mile, and towns and cities are represented by round dots, larger or smaller, according to the number of inhabitants. It is a very curious and pretty plaything; but of what imaginable use? It is like the shadowing on the maps of the moon. London looks awful—a horrible black pit—and must give children, who will be delighted with the plaything, a notion that our great metropolis must be a sink of iniquity. Cobbett’s notion of the “great wen” was by no means agreeable; to make it such a black pit of destruction is far less flattering. There are diagrams also showing, by the closeness of dots, the density of population at various periods. It was certainly a very ingenious contrivance of the inventor, for the enlargement and continuance of his work and employment; in a matter, too, where, at first view, so little was required to be done. If not more profitable, it at least provides as much amusement as Diogenes afforded when he rolled his tub about, to show that he must be busy. The inventor was, however, wiser than the philosopher; for the philosopher aimed at satire only, the inventor of the maps and diagrams at pay and profit. Everything should nowadays be turned into the channel of education; it might be suggested to the educational purveyors, and to masters and inspectors of schools, who stand a chance of wanting something to teach, to have these maps and diagrams printed cheaply on thick or board paper, that, even in their recreation hours, the scholars may learn something, and the favourite “game of goose,” of ominous name, be profitably superseded. The two diagrams of London, the one for the year 1801, the other 1851, may serve quite as well as the “Chinese puzzle” to exercise growing or dull memories, having a like advantage of not burthening the mind, already too full, with any useful knowledge whatever. For instance, it will be quite sport to learn by heart that, as to density of London in 1801, “on an average, there were nearly 394 square yards of land to every person, 2784 square yards to every inhabited house.” As to proximity in 1801, that, “on an average, the mean distance from house to house (inhabited) was nearly 57 yards; from person to person 21 yards.” That, as to density in 1851, “on an average, there were nearly 160 square yards of land to every person; 1234 square yards to every inhabited house.” As to proximity, that in 1851, “on an average, the mean distance from house to house (inhabited) was nearly 38 yards; from person to person 14 yards.” So that every person is approaching his neighbour in person, but not probably in love or liking, so rapidly, as that he has already seven yards of the area of his liberty taken from him since 1801. It will be comfortably and philosophically answered, that most of those who enjoyed that liberty in 1801, more than half a century ago, cannot complain, for they are now silent, and in less space, that of six feet by four; and that the present generation easily accommodate themselves in less space, having the better liberty of making more noise. These are the trifles, the games, and the plays that amuse children six feet high. Let them by all means roll about their tub in the streets, if they will remain contented with their sport and their wages. They have, however, we may both of us surmise and fear, done far less innocent work. It is not pleasant to know that the pure, chaste secresy of your house has been invaded, taken possession of, and is no longer exclusively yours; that you are in name or in number, as No. 1 or No. 2, put away in a pigeon-hole somewhere in that black pit you have seen in the map, to be drawn out, one of these days, at the will of any impertinent official, and further questioned, perhaps, as the phrase is, squeezed, when anything is to be got out of you. You may have a commission sent down to your house, and take possession of it, for some scrutiny or other, while you are taking your morning walk; on your return, you will find two or three commissioners have coolly taken your joint off the spit, and are politely drinking your health out of your choicest sherry; and as an excuse of extraordinary business, question you about the age and property of your great-grandmother deceased. How do you or I know what use will be made of all these registered particulars about us? It would be far pleasanter to be let alone. I have an antipathy to curious questioning people. Dr Franklin, when he came to a strange place, knowing the inquisitive disposition of the people, used to say at once, “My name is Benjamin Franklin; I come from such a place, and am going to such a place; age so and so, and on such business; and now let me have out a horse.” I should for one like to compound with this scrutinising government, on condition of exemption from place in their books, to put out weekly posted to my door the names, ages, and sex of every inmate, with a diary of their employments the six days; requesting not to be called to account for my time on the hallowed seventh. There is no chance of such a composition being accepted on their part; for you will see, Eusebius, there is nothing they are so busy about as to know what religion you are of. There is a separate book for this very purpose; nay, they go farther—they have superseded all known authorities in these matters, and have dictated what shall be your creed, giving you only a latitude of “Churches”—such they call every denomination in their Report presented to Parliament, and her Majesty, who as yet happily has recognised but one Church of England, in which matter the Report is undoubtedly at variance with the fundamental law of the Constitution, and passes a kind of insulting suggestion upon her Majesty’s highest prerogative, her very crown and dignity. This is a matter for other consideration; the religious Report must be examined; I only see at present, and note the fact, that the Church of England is put down as but one of the sects.
“Increase and multiply” was at the beginning, and from the beginning to this day is, the Divine command. Some would infer that there must be a blessing attending obedience to it, others would in part abrogate the law, and, with Malthus, admit no crowding at the bountiful table which nature supplies. The presumption fairly is, that as security to life and happiness is the main cause of increase; viewing this world only, such increase must be a great good, and it implies advancement in civilisation, which possibly may not be ill defined as the art of promoting life and happiness. It includes moral advancement. But the beneficence of our Maker allows us to look beyond this world. Hence, the awful thought, and the responsibility incurred by its increase of population, is an increase of immortal souls. There is a depth in this argument beyond my scope. It is a curious fact which this Census shows. In 1801, the population of Great Britain was 10,578,956; in 1851, it had reached 20,959,477. Thus the population has nearly doubled in fifty years. But further, “The population of the United Kingdom, including the army, navy, and merchantseamen, was 21,272,187 in 1821, and about 27,724,849 in 1851; but in the interval 2,685,747 persons emigrated, who, if simply added to the population of the United Kingdom, make the survivors and descendants of the races within the British Isles in 1821, now 30,410,595.”
Perhaps, Eusebius, you never considered that you have only right and title to a certain limited area, to live and breathe in, in this your beloved country. Your area is becoming more circumscribed every day. People are approximating fearfully. You may come to touch very disagreeable people; at present you are only a few yards apart. There are two things, according to this Census, threatening you—“density” and “proximity.” For “density” a French writer proposes “specific population after the analogy of specific gravity,” so that if there be an accelerating ratio, you may be run in upon and crushed by your neighbours, after the annihilating principle of some of our railroads. I remember when a boy hearing an old gentleman make a curious calculation, equalising rights to the air we breathe. He came to the conclusion that a man who smoked tobacco took up more room in the atmosphere than he had any right to. This, now that we are so rapidly approximating, ought, you will think, to come under the consideration of the Legislature. See your danger—“the people of England were on an average one hundred and fifty-three yards asunder in 1801, and one hundred and eight yards asunder in 1851.” Thus the regular goers, the world-walkers, are coming in upon you; but there are some as erratic as comets, whose contiguity you will dread. I say this is your danger, for you do not suppose such infinite pains would have been taken, and such vast expense incurred, merely out of idle curiosity to give you this information. Perhaps it is kindly meant to give you a hint that your room would be preferred to your company. “Tempus abire tibi est.” More than this—not only persons, but houses are encroaching upon each other. “The mean distance apart of their houses was three hundred and sixty-two yards in 1801, and two hundred and fifty-two yards in 1851.” You see, then, you must not only set yourself in order to depart, but you must “set your house in order” also. It is really astonishing that the Census Commission should have taken such a world of trouble in making calculations which, at first sight, look so puerile; we must only conclude, that somehow or other the labour is as much worth the hire, as the labourer is worthy his hire.
I dare to say, among your ignorances, you are ignorant of this, that the British Isles are at least five hundred in number. “Five hundred islands and rocks have been numbered, but inhabitants were only found and distinguished on the morning of March 31, 1851, in one hundred and seventy-five islands, or groups of islands.” I cannot very well tell what is meant by “distinguished,” but you will perceive that there is a chance, if you fear the “crushing density and proximity” of escape to one of these islands, as yet uninhabited, where you may exist without contact or contagion, as a very “distinguished” individual. You may be another Alexander Selkirk, and “monarch of all you survey,” and have the honour of a distinction, in the next census, now enjoyed by a lone lady. You will be enumerated as, and as solely taking care of, number one. There are British isles that have each but two inhabitants. “Little Papa” has but one—a woman; and “Inchcolm one solitary man.” What think you of this “last man” and this “last woman,” each upon his or her “ultima Thule?” The motherless man-hating woman, in contempt of the parental name, alone treading under foot “Little Papa.” The “solitary man,” if, as is likely he be, brutish, may live out of the fear of a recent Act of Parliament. For if he disdains the marital luxury, he cannot be punished for beating his wife.
The writer of these statistics, aware that there is a good deal of dry matter, prudently sprinkles it with a little saltwater poetry. Thus, as a kind of preface to these British islands, he says, “The Scandinavian race survives in its descendants round the coasts of the British Isles, and the soul of the old Viking still burns in the seamen of the British fleet, in the Deal boatmen, in the fishermen of the Orkneys, and in that adventurous, bold, direct, skilful, mercantile class, that has encircled the world by its peaceful conquests. What the Greeks were in the Mediterranean Sea, the Scandinavians have been in the Atlantic Ocean. A population of a race on the islands and the island coasts, impregnated with the sea, in fixing its territorial boundaries would exhibit but little sympathy with the remonstrating Roman poet, in his Sabine farm over the Mediterranean:
‘Nequidquam Deus abscidit
Prudens occano dissociabili
Feras, si tamen impiæ
Non tangenda rates trausiliunt vada.’”
A writer or compiler of statistics should ride his own hobby. Pegasus is hard-mouthed to his hand; if he attempts the use of the curb, he is thrown, and thus is sure to be run away with. So here he has got quite beyond the ground of matter-of-fact. By the Vikings’ soul in the British seamen—the burning soul too—he declares himself of the Pythagorean philosophy, quite gratuitously; and in the following sentence carries his transmigration notions to a strange but practical conclusion, for he tells us of a race “impregnated with the sea,” imaging sailors’ mothers and wives as mermaids—that is, previous to the marine and marital alliances; by which unaccountable flight of poetic diction, I presume, he means only that the sea was rather a rough nursing-mother: and how could he imagine that such an untutored race ever read, or could read, a syllable of what Horace wrote? Doubtless, he must have been weary, counting up these five hundred mostly barren islands, and, coming in the list to “Rum,” it must have made for him a comfortable suggestion; and in consequence, a pretty stiff tumbler set all his ideas at once afloat, and poetically, “half seas over” among the islands, steering, however, steadily, as he was bound towards Mull Port, and the more pleasant hospitality of its 7485 inhabitants. Having descended from this marine Pegasus, the author proceeds in his statistics.